


I Don't Know Where I'm Going (But I'm On My Way)

by hepsybeth



Series: Give Those Kids and Me the Brand New Century [5]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Prohibition, References to Addiction, References to PTSD, also i don't know how to write action lol, i really just started thinking long and hard about ww1 and blink's missing eye so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 21:31:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13889526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hepsybeth/pseuds/hepsybeth
Summary: Blink wasn't a big fan of people.





	I Don't Know Where I'm Going (But I'm On My Way)

**Author's Note:**

> b/c of the time period this takes place in, I just wondered what kind of scenario a person could lose their eye in, and I realized that this takes place after world war 1, and there were crazy injuries in that war
> 
> also, blink is 23 and crutchie is 18 so if anyone's reading this with the intention of shipping them in this au...don't
> 
> denton's a lit major b/c why not?
> 
> also, i'm not sure if "jerry" for germans is a slur anymore, but that's a warning in case
> 
> and i reference, like blink and you miss it, the first wizard of oz movie. it was a silent film which makes the movie with judy garland that we all know and love...a remake. i was shocked too.
> 
> the title comes from "I Don't Know Where I'm Going But I'm On My Way by irving berlin, some ww1 song

Blink wasn’t a big fan of people.

He was cordial, when he needed to be. A “good day, ma’am” here and a friendly nod of his head there, but he would rather not put in the effort more times than not. Hell, he’d wager that it was never worth the effort. He had done his part, endured so much, bore those ugly scars, and he was still expected to be cordial. Even to the gawkers.

He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray at the table he was sitting at. He leaned back and used his left hand to flick through the pages of _The Wizard of Oz_. It was a kid’s book, sure. About venturing far away from your responsibilities and saving innocents a world away, killing others whether it was your intention or not.

Of course, it wasn’t written so heavy-handed. It was first and foremost about a midwestern girl and her dog finding themselves in a magical place with witches and talking lions and animate scarecrows and silver slippers that could take you back home if you so wished it.

 _Still_ , he thought, taking another drag of his cigarette, _who’s stoppin’ me from interpretin’ this kid book however I like?_

Blink could feel his mind begin to wander, wander to places and scenes and faces he'd rather forget. He tried to refocus on Dorothy and Co.

_God, I could use some morphine._

“Whatchu you readin’ there?” The familiar sound of Bryan Denton’s voice entered the room, along with the clicking sound of those fancy new shoes he’d just recently bought. Blink couldn’t understand it, personally. Why did new shoes always sound so loud? He hated the sound.

“‘S my day off,” he said sharply, turning the page. Dorothy and her magical pals were now walking down the yellow brick road.

“So I can’t ask you about what you’re readin’? What sense does that make, huh?”

Blink didn’t look up from his page as he answered. “No. Because after that, you’re just gonna ask if I can do a small favor which’ll then turn into a bigger favor and ‘fore I know it, my day off’s gonna be done, but it wouldn't have even been an honest day off.”

“You got all that from one question?”

“I’ve been workin’ wit’ you since I came back. I’m pretty sure o’ the pattern.” Blink said, recalling the day he returned to the streets of Manhattan four years prior, a scared and broken boy with nowhere to go. Somehow, someway, he found himself in the company of forward-thinking Bryan Denton, a man who'd only just finished his college education in 1917, before the States entered the war in Europe. English Literature major, he remembered. Except, after the war he had next to no interest in pursuing a career in the field. War tended to do that to someone. 

“Still.” Blink glanced up from his book at Denton who was setting his black fedora on the arm of their green couch. Denton had been living in this apartment since he'd gotten back and Blink would occasionally make a pit stop here and take a nap or relax or something. It was a nice place, neat and tidy with a few landscape paintings here and there (Blink had referred him to an artist friend and Denton bought some of his work). It was sparsely furnished with two tables, a bed, a dresser, and an ugly green couch, but that mirrored Denton’s personality perfectly. He wasn’t an extravagant person when it came to interior design, much preferring to spend his money in nice clothes or nice meals or nice women. After all, he’d said more than once that he wasn’t planning to stay in New York forever, much less Manhattan. What, then, would be the point in investing so much in a temporary place?

Blink likened himself to something of a nomadic creature. He knew a great number of people in the city and he was cordial enough with most of them so he was never at a disadvantage when it came to asking to sleep in their house for the night. He just didn’t know what to do otherwise.

Actually, he did know. Get money, pay for a place, keep it looking nice. But try as he might, and he did try, he couldn’t work up the courage to sign a lease. He was terrified at the idea of being alone when the sun went down. So, until that courage came, he’d ask people he knew for a room now and then.

Perhaps their patience would eventually wear thin, but it wasn’t often you’d witness someone being rude to a veteran to their face.

Perhaps the nightmares would subside or he'd grow a spine. Whichever came first.

_I need some fuckin' morphine._

Blink sighed, and he began to speak, mumbling around the cigarette hanging between his lips. “Kid book. You’ve probably heard of it. Wizard of Oz, Dorothy and Toto. Talkin’ lions.”

“And that metal man,” Denton said, shedding his suit. He folded it over his arm. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. My sister likes the flick.”

“Hmm. Anyway, I know how it ends. This Dorothy character,” Blink pointed at the book. “She kills two people.”

“They deserve it?”

“What?”

“The people Dorothy killed,” Denton clarified. “Did they deserve it?”

Blink considered his answer. “Ain’t sure if it matters much.”

“Hey, Blink.”

Blink rolled his eyes and dogeared the page he was on before closing the book. “He took me outta the moment,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “Blessed Lord, why is this world so cruel?”

“You’re a riot,” Denton deadpanned, slumping onto the couch across from him. In his hands was a pencil and the ledger filled with all their business dealings. Probably checking the numbers again. Trying to see who owed him what before he’d walk up to them in some lonely alleyway and demand the money.

“I try.” Blink stood up, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m goin’ out.” Afterwards, he felt around in his pants pocket for his eyepatch before securing it on. From experience, Blink knew it was easy to explain away an eyepatch, spin some tale of some kind. But walking around with a gaping hole where an eye once was didn’t make him appear friendly enough for anyone to ask him what happened.

There was nothing he despised more than being cordial to the same people who would ostracize him in the same second. And he hated the staring.

“Hey, hey,” Denton started, staring intently at the ledger with an angry look in his eyes. Blink knew that the anger was directed at whoever’s name was written on the ledger, a certain someone who hadn’t done their part in whatever deal they had conjured up with Denton and Blink. It was plenty easy to forget to pay for a product you’ve already received. Which was why he had told Denton that demanding payment up front was the smart thing to do, but Denton claimed he could handle it. Maybe, he’d finally learned that it’s bad for business.

“What?”

“I want you to make a surprise appointment with the O’Donnell Brothers.”

“‘S my day off! We’ve been over this. And you got other people in your employment”

“I trust you more,” Denton said. “And you get an extra day off tomorrow if you do this.” Denton looked up from his ledger and gave a friendly smile. “That, and we can take a trip to a cathouse.”

“Temptin’. I’ll consider it.”

“And bring that new kid. Emil something.”

“The cripple kid?”

“Yeah,” Denton said, writing something down. “I like his nerves. I wanna show him the ropes.”

Blink opened the door. “I’ll consider it,” he repeated.

“Thanks, Blink.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

"Oh, and Blink?"

Blink rolled his eyes, recognizing the tone in his partner's voice like the back of his hand. "What?"

"Try and lay off the morphine, yeah?"

Blink shut the door behind him.

* * *

 

Blink didn’t always go by “Blink”. Up until 1918, only two months before the war ended, he was known as “Louis Baletti”.

Even before he was known as “Blink”, he’d been called “Kid Blink” on account of his age and baby face. The nickname caught on, and it took a lot of insistence on his part to get others to drop the “Kid” because, in his opinion, he stopped being a kid the moment a Jerry landmine reduced many of his fellow soldiers, many of them friends, into nothing more than charred black bone and torn bloody flesh. He was twenty-three now, no longer eighteen, and he felt that the “Kid” part was fairly unnecessary.

He’d gotten the name after he lost his eye. It was a gunshot to the head that did him in. Missed his brain, somehow. Missed anything totally life-threatening. It didn’t even knock him unconscious, the damn thing. He was fully aware of everything when it happened. Possibly, even more so. The deafening noise of artillery in the air, the choking smell of smoke and other bodily fluids, the shaking feeling of explosions in the distance, the unbearable sound of screams, screams that he didn’t realize were coming from him.

He remembered hot blood just pouring and pouring down his face. He remembered feeling dizzy. He remembered screaming for his mother. He remembered hands on his shoulder and hands on his face and hands lifting him from the ground.

Then, he remembered nothing at all. That is, until he woke up inside an army hospital. His mouth was dry and his face felt thick and his vision was sharply reduced and he couldn’t understand what was up with that.

Somehow, he’d managed to avoid being shipped to a hospital throughout the two years of his being a soldier in the United States Army. Sure, he got injured. Who didn’t? But he’d evaded becoming seriously wounded. Most soldiers were able to avoid anything too bad after surviving for a few months and learning what stupid shit not to do. But, here he was now. He remembered how the first thing on his mind was wanting to heal up as quickly as possible so he could rejoin the fight.

He remembered being told by a sweet nurse there, named Joan or Joanne or Joy or something, who told him that he had lost his eye in the battle and that as soon as he healed, he’d be sent home.

He remembered feeling both relieved and miserable. Relieved because his fight was over. He was missing an eye and his life was changed forever, but he’d be able to go home. But also miserable because his boys were still out there and he was terrified that he was no longer there to defend them and help keep them alive.

Over the next few weeks, he’d make his way around the hospital, trying to maneuver the world with one less eye and a lack of depth perception. He met other soldiers from all over. Some were from California, some from Georgia, a few Manhattan themselves. Some men were missing legs or arms or both. One man was blistered and burned all over his chest and legs. There was a pale man with a near incomprehensible Southern accent who was dying from a non-contagious sickness, but he was missing an ear. The man found it funny and encouraged others to laugh at the irony.

“All y’all gon’ have t’ walk ‘round like an acrobat or some shit, but y’all livin’,” he chuckled. “All’s I got is a missin’ ear and I’m dyin’.”

The pale man was fond of giving out nicknames to the men in the hospital. A man with one leg was dubbed “Nutcracker” and a man missing half his face and was wearing some sort of mask was fondly called “Tin Soldier”. The man took one look at Louis’ eyepatch of gauze and named him “Kid Blink”. And it stuck. Even the nurses slipped up and called him that instead of Private First Class Louis Baletti.

A month passed and the war ended. The good guys won and it was time to go back home. Blink was ordered to reach a hospital as soon as he reached the states so he’d get checked up on. At the hospital, they tried to see if they could fit a glass eye in there, but it was no use. The socket was too heavily scarred and damaged and Blink assured them that an eyepatch was all he needed.

"Does it hurt?" the doctor asked.

"No," Blink lied.

Speaking of which, his name wasn’t the only thing that changed. His face was something that, even four years later, he wasn’t totally sure if he was used to. Some things were the same, his blond hair, his long nose, his pointed chin, every other physical feature he’d inherited from his Scandinavian mother. But other things were different. His baby face was gone, thinner and sharper now. His empty socket, of course, that was still an ugly red, covered with thick scar tissue all throughout. Around the socket were more scars, spreading across in ugly white lines and fissures that almost reminded him of the rays of the sun little kids would draw around a yellow circle. One of the longer lines reached nearly to his upper lip. His eyepatch covered the worst of it, but the scars around them still showed.

His remaining eye was also different. Blink couldn’t say how, but it seemed duller. Older. Wearier.

He didn’t too much look in the mirror these days.

There were other scars covering his body. On days when the war felt distant and his head seemed above the water, he could point and talk about each of their origins (“ _this I got in Paris” “shrapnel ripped through my side here” “jerry knicked me on my leg but it weren’t too bad” “santa must’ve put me on his naughty list ‘cause i got this burn instead of the pocket watch on my list”_ ). Those days occurred more and more often and Blink was glad about it. But there were the odd days were he could hardly look at himself, the days he became uncomfortably aware of each and every area of raised skin and deep cuts, the days when he hesitate closing his eyes at night in fear of what he’d see.

On those bad days, his face would ache with a piercing phantom pain, like he was getting shot all over again. His hands would shake in paranoia. It'd take all he could not to jump at shadows. He'd pierce himself with a syrette and he'd feel alright for a while until the alright wore off.

This was a good day, hence him being excited to kick back and read a fucking book. But business is business and business waits for no one.

Blink exited the apartment and walked down the street. He continued walking while avoiding street salesmen and young children asking either him or their mothers if he was a pirate or something. He walked until he saw the sign saying “Paula’s Palace” and he entered the establishment as his stomach growled.

Seated in a booth inside was the towheaded boy that had tried to steal their alcohol. Emil Morris. He sat alone at a booth with his crutch lying down over his lap. He was devouring a sub sandwich of some kind and he looked up when he heard the bell ring that indicated that the door opened.

“Hey!” Emil said with a smile.

Blink nodded at him and continued walking to the counter to order a meal. Also a sub sandwich of some kind. You couldn’t go wrong with sub sandwiches in his opinion. After ordering, he made his way to the booth where the boy was sitting at and sat across from him.

“Hey!” the boy repeated.

“Hi,” said Blink.

“So,” Emil said, around a mouthful of bread and lettuce and meat. “How ya doin’?”

“Alright. Denton wanted me to show you the ropes.”

“Really?” the boy said, perking up.

“For the record, this is supposed to be my day off so don’t piss me off or anythin’.”

“Sure, sure,” the boy said.

They sat in silence for a while.

“You got a nickname or somethin’, kid?”

Emil paused before taking another bite of his sandwich. He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Who wants to know?”

“I wants to know. ‘S why I asked, yeah?”

“Right.” The boy paused again. “Why?”

“‘Cause Emil sounds old and ya can’t be more’n seventeen."

"I'm eighteen."

"There's no real difference. That, and you don’t look like an Emil.”

“What’s an Emil supposed to look like?”

“And,” Blink continued instead of answering. “I can’t call you Morris because I know a Morris and he’s a regular shitstain.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, in that case.” And then the boy’s face went sort of red and he looked away from Blink for a few seconds before looking back, staring him down. “It’s Crutchie.”

“Crutchie,” Blink repeated, not sure what he expected. “Because of the crutch?”

“Yeah,” the boy, Crutchie, said. “Because of the crutch.”

At that moment, the lady at the counter came to their table and handed Blink a plate with his sub and a mug of coffee. He thanked the lady and, after she walked away, he drank a little of it before setting it aside and he continued to talk.

“Why?”

“Polio,” Crutchie explained, leaning back into his seat. He set the sandwich down. “I got better, but it left my leg sorta twisted. Don’t hurt no more, but I can’t walk on it easy. And some friends of mine took to calling me that.”

“Some friends,” Blink said. “Sounds like a raw deal.”

Crutchie shrugged, smiling. “Eh, it ain’t too bad. Ain’t the worst nickname in the world. Plus, my leg can predict the weather!” He laughed to himself, like it was a familiar joke of some kind. “You got a nickname?”

“Yeah.” Blink tapped at the eyepatch covering what used to contain his left eye. “Blink.”

“Blink? Oh! Oh right. ‘Cause you only got one eye.”

Blink nodded. “‘Cause I only got one eye.”

“We both got a raw deal, huh?”

“Hmm.”

“What happened?”

Blink shook his head and sighed. “Fuckin’ war. Fuckin’ jerries.”

Crutchie appeared to shrink into his seat, but Blink wasn’t sure why.

“Anyway, finish up with your meal. Youse gonna accompany me on a trip to see the O’Donnell brothers.”

“Yeah?” Crutchie asked while chewing with his mouth open. “T’ do what?”

“To show ‘em what is and what ain’t good for business.” Blink didn’t elaborate but Crutchie’s eyes widened and he practically swallowed the rest of his sandwich. Blink finished off his and eventually, they left the restaurant.

* * *

 

It wasn’t too bad of a job. Blink told Crutchie to stay back and “watch and learn” before he attacked an unsuspecting O’Donnell brother. He punched him a few times in the face, feeling the crack of a nose underneath his closed fist. Blood ran down the man’s nose and he tried, to no avail, to push Blink away. That did nothing more but warrant a few more punches and more of Blink’s calm demands for the late payment.

Blink sometimes hated how the war made violence seem almost natural. He didn’t hate it, though, but he didn’t enjoy it either. It just _was._ And it was easy, and not a whole lot came easy to him anymore so he’d take it.

It didn’t take long for the other O’Donnell brother to show up. He was smaller, this one, so it didn’t worry Blink. He shouted at Crutchie and told him to get the man and he watched, almost in awe, as the boy took his crutch and swung it into the man’s stomach. He wacked him a few more times with the thing, eventually pinning him down. Blink was glad none of the men were armed. 

_Youse are fuckin' idiots._

Blink voiced Denton’s demands again, now that he had the attention of the two brothers. The smaller man promised that the money was inside the house and the other brother quickly nodded in agreement.

Blink released the man from his grip, but took his gun from his coat pocket and focused it on the man so he wouldn’t try anything stupid.

“I promise you, it’s just inside,” the bigger O’Donnell brother said.

“And I promise you that if it ain’t, one o’ these bullets gonna find its way inside you.”

Turns out, the money was inside. All two-thousand dollars worth.

They left the men alone after that. All things considered, it turned out alright. Late payments, especially payments that were months late, were few and far between. But it happened, and Denton hated getting shafted.

“So,” Crutchie said as they walked down the street. “That’s the kinda business you do.”

Blink kept himself from rolling his eyes. “What did you think, kid?”

“Nothing. I mean, I figured youse were gangsters, but I’ve never seen shit like that up close.”

“Different than what the papers say, huh?”

“Much different.”

“Hmm.”

“Blink?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you do this? This kinda job?”

“What, as opposed to being a salesman or a clerk or a fuckin’ factory worker?”

“Well...yeah.”

Blink sighed. “Salesmen gotta interact wit’ strangers, all cordial. Clerks require you havin’ some kinda degree or general knowledge of handlin’ papers. And bein’ cordial. Ever been inside a factory?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s constant noise. Constant whirrin’ and clatterin’ and clickin’ and it drives me mad.”

“Oh.”

“But this. This is easy. I ain’t ever gonna be some college boy who turns in assignments and reads about Aristotle or whoever the fuck. And, this pays better than any o’ those jobs, so who’s got the better deal?”

Crutchie didn’t answer, so they continued to walk in silence, save for the rhythmic sound of Crutchie’s crutch, until he asked another question.

“You ever kill anyone?”

“Fuck kinda question is that, kid?”

“Jus’ wonderin’, ‘sall”

“Are you askin’ in general or specifically when it comes to the business?” Blink wanted to know, because if it were a question of “in general”, he’d let Denton know that this kid he liked was dumber than a bag of rocks.

“The job, of course.”

Blink shrugged, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “It happens.” He turned to look at his smaller companion whose light brown eyes looked straight ahead. “What, you wonderin’ if you’d have to?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Care to elaborate.”

“The job’s dangerous and excitin’. I get that,” the boy said, a strange edge to his voice. “I’m a quick learner and I’ve had a rough life up til now. Assholes don’t care if you got polio, so the kid recoverin’ from polio needs to pick up self-defence. Life sucks sometimes, whatever.” The boy’s blond eyebrows furrowed. “But I wouldn’t take anyone’s life. Ever. Ain’t my life to take.”

“Hmm,” Blink mumbled. But he thought over what the boy said and damn it if he didn’t respect a person with morals.

“Is that okay?” Crutchie asked, edge gone and replaced with something more tentative. “That’s not a deal breaker or anythin’?”

Blink scoffed. “You don’t know Denton that well, but once he’s sure about somethin’, he’s dead set on seein’ it through. You’re and idiot, Crutchie.” At that, the boy had the decency to look at least somewhat ashamed, his face turning red. But, nonetheless, a small smile began to form on his face. “You’re an idiot who tried to steal illegal alcohol. Dare or not, plenty o’ people woulda seen you killed for that. But, you didn’t bend. You didn’t beg. You didn’t cry. You’ve got balls on you, kid, but you’re still an idiot.” Blink looked at Crutchie and Crutchie looked at Blink and he grinned even wider. “Denton don’t take shit like that lightly. Frankly, neither do I.”

“Well, y’know,” the boy began. “I ain’t usually that rude. I’m actually pretty nice when ya get to know me.”

“I’m sure.”

At the end, Blink decided to turn down Denton’s offer to join him at the cathouse. Blink wanted to learn more about this kid who didn’t flinch at violence, who laughed at his own jokes, and correctly predicted (with his leg, according to him) that it would rain in the early evening. More importantly, he appreciated how the boy never, not even once, lingered too long on the left side of his face.

It probably wouldn’t be difficult to remain cordial with him.


End file.
